


The Third Day of Christmas

by Winklepicker



Series: 12 Days of Christmas [3]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: As marionettes, I Don't Even Know, Kylux - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 21:38:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17271581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winklepicker/pseuds/Winklepicker
Summary: On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me...Tim Burton's version of Toy Story.





	The Third Day of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt Animals/Anthropomorphism. It's sort of that. Kind of a fairy tale, if you squint but not really at all.

Mister Vrubel tugged on the chain on his storefront door, the metal links already skin-clinging cold in the bitter night air. There’d be no nonsense tonight, he’d made sure. No more toys strewn all over the floor. No more marionettes gathered in strange covens. It was quite the prank—some local urchins no doubt, but enough was enough. He rattled the old door one last time. Satisfied, he huddled into his collar and headed home, hurrying to the warmth of his own hearth.

In the orange light of the streetlamp streaming through the window, the General shook himself alive. Like a crown, his bright copper hair shone bright. He reached his little arms up and heaved himself free of the hook he dangled from during the daylight hours, being tugged at by grubby-fingered children.

When his boneless limbs had reclaimed their strength he gathered his strings and clambered down the cabinet he was perched upon. Down, down. Each knob of a drawer a stepping stone and a hand hold for his descent to the dusty floor.

A clattering wooden train sped past. “All aboard for the town square,” cried the ragged grey rabbit in the driver’s compartment. The General jolted out of the way, windmilled his arms and cursed the rabbit and every last bit of its stuffing.

There was one thing on the General’s mind, and it was lying atop Mister Vrubel’s work desk. Last night’s raucous shenanigans had left their scars and that day the General had dreamt of dark and ruined things.

“General.” A neatly dressed wooden cowboy tipped his hat. The General nodded. He veered past a pair of jack-in-the-boxes playing knuckles and a waist-coated teddy bear trying to rescue a ballerina from a music box.

The door to the workshop was ajar. Open enough for the General to sidle through, though his controller required manoeuvring. “My Lord of Darkness? Are you there?” he whispered in the dark of the windowless room.

A small whimper, a small moan. There he was still. Upon the worktable, so far and away from the General.

This desk was not so easy to climb as the cabinet but the General was not called that only for his gold capped shoulders and the feather in his bicorn hat. He stuck his tiny fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill whistle.

Soon and sooner, a troop of toys were in formation. A pyramid of helping-hands and legs-up to lift the General to the pinnacle where he scrambled onto the plateau of the desk and rushed toward his Master.

The General wept to see him. Not broken as in his nightmares but whole. A thin crack marred his porcelain face but Mr Vrugel had done a fine job with his pastes and paints. Only the General could tell. He took his Master’s face in his hands, kissed his rose-red lips, his noble brow. “We must flee, my Lord. We must take our chance tonight. Do you think you can?”

His Master sat up with a pained groan. The General’s hands fluttered over him, ready to catch any fall or tend any hurts. 

“You must go, my dearest General. I would see you free before some beast-child takes you from me only to tangle your strings and throw you in a corner.”

“And I would throw myself in the fire before I left without you,” said the General. He was calm, quiet, and completely serious. “Troops!” he called over the edge, “Operation High Roller.”

While the General and his Master muttered sweet murmurs into each other’s ears, the toy troops set to work until the ragged grey rabbit peeked over the top of the desk and cleared its throat. “All aboard, sirs.”

With each piece of track being held tight in little wooden, woollen, porcelain hands, the ragged rabbit tooted the train’s horn and clattered down the pyramid. His precious passengers held tight to each other as they sped toward freedom.


End file.
